The Thief Who Went to War

by Michael McClung

  “You can’t, Amra,” said Holgren. “We can’t. They need to be dealt with.”

  I blew out a breath. “Yeah, so I knew that. But it doesn’t have to be tonight. And anyway, I don’t have a clue where to begin.”

  Holgren smiled. “Fortunately, you have two learned, reasonably intelligent fellows here to assist you in crafting your designs.”

  “And we are not without other skills,” Greytooth added.

  “Fine. But this is going to require more wine than what’s available in this draughty pile of stones.”

  That was the moment I went to war with the castoff splinters of a mad goddess. She’d already gone to war with me, after all.

  TWO

  SOMEBODY HAD BURNED down my fucking house.

  There was a house-shaped hole in the familiar architecture of the Promenade, with blackened stones and charred beams littering the base of it. I stood at the primly closed gate on a sunny, late summer morning, mouth open, and stared in disbelief. They’d got the carriage house in the back as well. I was the proud owner of ashes, blackened beams, and shattered bricks. Behind me, the foot traffic on the Promenade just went on, as if nothing had happened. As if this was all quite normal and nothing to remark upon. I pinched myself fiercely just to make sure I wasn’t in some awful nightmare. I did not suddenly and abruptly wake up.

  Some evil fucker had really burned down my gods-damned house. I don’t know how long I stood there, stunned, but it was... a while.

  “It happened about two months ago,” said a voice by my side; one, I slowly realized, that I recognized. Inspector Kluge. I hadn’t even heard him approach.

  “Have you caught the fucker?” I asked, unable to take my eyes away from the devastation.

  “I’m afraid not. No witnesses, no suspects, no leads. But now that you have returned, Amra Thetys, perhaps that will change.”

  I turned and stared at him. Same horsey face, same falsely empathetic eyes, with the pretty purple band around the irises. He looked a little older, a little more salt and a little less pepper in his close-cropped hair.

  “I have no idea who’d want to burn me out. Except the neighbors. They were always giving me dirty looks. Did you interrogate them?”

  Kluge pointed to the house on the left of my now-manseless lot. “That neighbour is a shipping magnate who makes fifty thousand marks a year, in a bad year.” He pointed to the house on the right. “There, we have the residence of a baronet who is nearly ninety years old. It is my professional opinion that neither is responsible for burning down your house. After all, who would want to live next to a smoking hole in the ground, or risk their own home burning as well if the wind blew fickle?”

  “No, you’re right. They’d’ve probably just hired assassins if they were that bothered.” I rubbed my face with both hands. It didn’t help. When I dropped them, my dwelling was still blackened rubble.

  “I can assure you that the investigation is ongoing. There’s another matter to discuss. I’ve been sent by the Lord Governor to discover the whereabouts of your... associate, Holgren Angrado.”

  “Why? Do you think he did it? Because that would be a real surprise. All his stuff was in there, too.”

  “No. The Lord Governor has business with the magus. Long-delayed business. Where is Holgren Angrado?”

  I shrugged. “Sorry, I couldn’t tell you. Holgren had business of his own to take care of.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Uh, three weeks ago? Thereabouts.”

  “Where?”

  “Bellarius.”

  “And you’ve just arrived from there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What ship?”

  “The Hawkwind. Say, are you interrogating me? Because the last time you did that you threatened to hang me. I haven’t forgotten, you know. Things like that you don’t forget.”

  “This is not an interrogation. If it were, as you well know, you would be in a dank, dimly lit room wearing shackles and manacles. No, mistress Thetys, this is simply a pleasant exchange on a street celebrated for its beauty, under a cloudless sky.” He looked up at said cloudless sky and sighed a fake little satisfied sigh, then looked back down at me. “I could arrange the other venue, if you’d like.”

  “You know, I’d love to, but it looks like I’ll be busy today finding someplace else to doss down. Maybe some other time, though.”

  “Let me be very direct,” he replied. “You say you don’t know where Angrado is. I don’t believe you. Now, personally, it would cheer me to no end if your partner never set foot in Lucernis again. You, too, for that matter. But I am not asking for myself. I am asking for the Lord Governor, and when the Lord Governor wants a question answered, it gets answered, and truthfully. How long that takes and how much pain is involved are the only variables.”

  “Kluge. Listen. I’m not saying I’m above lying to you. I don’t like you, and handing you a bag of cack instead of the truth would normally give me the same kind of joy as petting kittens, or winning a trifecta at the track. You may want to reflect on why that would be the case, by the way. What I am saying is, I’m not stupid enough hand a bag of cack to Governor Morno, even if you’re the one who has to carry it to him. I don’t know where Holgren is. If you don’t believe me, haul me in. At least I’ll have a place to sleep.”

  He gave me the look that said he didn’t believe a word I said, and was even suspicious of the individual syllables.

  “I know far more than I care to about your personal history, and it is tightly interwoven with that of Holgren Angrado’s. You two are, both figuratively and literally, as thick as thieves. That you would not know his whereabouts beggars belief.”

  “Yeah, well, when Holgren said he had business to take care of that he couldn’t talk about, you know what I said? I said ‘All right.’ And do you know why? Because our relationship is based on mutual respect and trust. You should try it in your own relationships. Really makes for a happier home life.”

  I watched him deciding whether hauling me down to Havelock would be worth the bother. Saw the moment he decided it wouldn’t be. Maybe he had a full day ahead.

  “We will speak again, Amra.”

  “Damned right we will. There’s a fucking arsonist out there that needs catching. What am I paying taxes for?” I actually had paid taxes on the manse. Grudgingly. My man of business had explained patiently and multiple times that there was no way around it.

  Kluge walked off without a further word, a little tight-jawed. I returned my attention to the ruins of my home.

  Somebody had burned down my fucking house.

  The old coot who lived next door hobbled out in his dressing gown as I contemplated the destruction. He pointed at me with is cane.

  “You! You need to have this lot cleared! It’s the Promenade, not a damned charcoal burner’s village. The stench is still in my drapes!”

  Noble or not, I gave him the fingers, which is when I noticed they were ink-stained. What the hells had I touched? I hadn’t been writing any letters. The question got driven out of my head, though, when he started throwing things at me, starting with his slippers and then moving on to progressively heavier things.

  He had a good arm for such an old fart, but his aim was shit. By the time I’d exhausted my vocabulary of hurtful things to call him, we’d attracted a bemused crowd. Shards of pottery littered the Promenade.

  Gods, but I’d missed Lucernis.

  WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN you find out your house got burned down? You drink. Or at least I did.

  Tambor’s hadn’t burned down in my absence, thank all the dead gods and despite the place deserving it. On the other hand, their wine had somehow gotten even worse, which I would have bet life-altering sums of money wasn’t possible. At first, I suspected they’d finally just made the switch to straight vinegar, but as I grew increasingly sauced, I knew that couldn’t be the case. You can’t get drunk off of vinegar.

  Don’t ask me how I know that.

&nbs
p; The first jug got me through the shock and disbelief. The second lit a fire under my rage. I swore bloody vengeance on the perpetrator. People moved away from me in the wine garden. Fair enough. I hadn’t meant to do it out loud, or quite so... animatedly. Or while holding a knife. The third jug didn’t do anything for me in particular except make me more drunk, which is all you can reasonably ask from a jug of plonk, really.

  The fourth jug got me to that hazy place I was looking for. The place where harsh truths had their edges sanded down a bit. Truth was, I’d been far happier living in the Foreigners’ Quarter than I ever had on the Promenade. I’d always felt like a squatter there, to be honest. Owning a manse on the richest street in the city had been a promise my much younger self had made while fresh off the boat, sick, and half-starving. And I’d done it. Took me ten years or thereabouts, but by Kerf’s chafed nipples, I’d done it. Not bad for a Hardside-born street rat.

  But, like a lot of things you spend your life chasing, the catching of it hadn’t really lived up to expectations.

  Maybe the shitty little firebug, whoever they were, had done me a favour.

  No. No, they definitely had not. Tambor’s didn’t stock enough wine to make me that philosophical about it. I was still going to find whoever had done it and set fire to them. I realized I was stabbing the scarred, filthy table top with my best knife, and made myself stop. Drunk and angry is no excuse to abuse a knife. Not my best and favorite knife, anyway. It was a little flashier than was my habit, with an onyx stone in the pommel, banded by a tiny silver chain. I’d got it... somewhere. Honestly, I’d been through so many knives by this point in my life, who could keep track?

  “Hey, mistress Amra.”

  I squinted up at the person who somehow had the gall, effrontery, temerity and bad judgment to both know my name, and not know not to interrupt my drunk.

  “Kettle. Siddown, you’re blocking the daylight.”

  “It’s night time, mistress. There ain’t no daylight left.”

  “’s a figure of speech. You want some cat piss?” I squinted in the direction of the serving girl. “’Nother bowl for my wide friend, here!”

  Kettle sat, and the woman passed him a bowl with a scowl even I noticed. “She vomits, that’s a silver mark for clean-up.”

  “Hey. Since when?” I asked. She rolled her eyes and went back to her dark corner of disapproval.

  “Place is going to the dogs.”

  Kettle poured and drank. All of it, in one long swallow. Not even a shudder crossed his large frame. I was impressed. Then he set the bowl down and poured himself another. “The trick is to put it back so fast you can’t taste it. Much.”

  I frowned. “That’s workmanlike, that is, Kettle. A true master of the drunk savors each mouthful, so’s you can regret your decisions in the moment. Not just the next day like some tyro.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, mistress. But really, I ain’t here to drink.”

  “Then you must be lost, kid. There’s no other reason to be here, I promise you.”

  “The old man sent me down here to fetch you, if you ain’t busy. He heard you was back.”

  Kettle worked as Fengal Daruvner’s runner. Fengal was my fixer and fence. As in used to be, me being retired and all. I guess you could call him a friend. He’d done me enough favors.

  “Huh. And where did old baldy hear that?”

  Kettle shrugged. “He hears what he hears. He told me to collect you before you took up house under a table.”

  “Don’t talk to me about houses.”

  He frowned, which was a grand display of emotion for him. “Somebody burnt you out, yeah.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The old man keeps tabs on stuff. You know that.”

  “Does he know who did it?”

  Kettle shrugged. “You could ask him, mistress. If climbing out of that jug isn’t too much trouble.”

  I decided it wasn’t. Then I stood up and Tambor’s started spinning, and had second thoughts.

  “Silver mark!” shouted the nasty woman, so I gave her the fingers and staggered out under my own power in an expressly non-vomitous fashion, just to show her up.

  Kettle had a hack waiting. He opened the door for me.

  “Hells is this? Fengal’s so sure I’d cut my drunk short just because he whistles?” I stood in the street, swaying, fists on my hips. “I am my own woman, I’ll have you know, Kettle-son-of-Pot.”

  “He said you’d likely be, uh, belligerent, depending on how deep in your cups you were. He said to tell you there’s a bottle of Gol-Shen waiting for you.”

  “Well, shit. You shoulda just led with that.” I climbed into the hack, folded myself into a corner, and closed my eyes. Third Wall Road was too far to walk in my state, but I knew my stomach wasn’t going to take kindly to a carriage ride. It was going to be a race between passing out and throwing up. I prayed for the first. I hate vomiting.

  Keel climbed in beside me, making the whole thing rock unpleasantly. My stomach gave a dangerous little lurch.

  “Baldy didn’t send you out with a bucket, by any chance?”

  THREE

  I CAME TO, TO A FINGER being poked repeatedly in my ribs.

  “Do that again and I’ll stick you.”

  “We’re here, Mistress Amra. Wake up, or I’ll be obliged to carry you in, and neither of us wants that.”

  I cracked one eye open. “Try it and I’ll stick you.”

  “Ah. You’re one of those drunks, sure enough.”

  “Why the hells do you think I drink alone?”

  “You need a hand down?”

  “You need a kick in the nutsack?”

  “All right, then.” He paid the driver while I poured myself out of the hack. I looked around, blearily. Third Wall Road hadn’t changed. Still grubby and working class, and a better neighbourhood than most I’d lived in. Fengal’s eatery was right where I’d left it. He’d thrown a fresh coat of paint on it, though; a cheery yellow color that might not have been the cause of my queasiness, but certainly didn’t help.

  My body wanted me to curl up somewhere dark and quiet, preferably with a pitcher of clean water and a half-loaf of bread. I knew from experience that the only way I was going to get past this stage of my drunk was to just muscle through it. Single-minded determination. Resolute fortitude. Other big words.

  That would require more booze, and quickly.

  I staggered into the eatery, which was about three-quarters full. Immediately I was assaulted by the dull roar of its patrons and the nasal ghost of decades of fried food and fish sauce. I couldn’t see Fengal sitting at the back at his usual table because my eyes weren’t cooperating with the focussing, but I knew he was there.

  “Fengal, you hairless mother-violator! Where’s my fucking bottle of Gol-Shen?”

  “I’ve got plenty of hair, you drunken reprobate,” he shouted back. “Just not where anyone wants it.”

  I worked my way to the back and slid into the chair next to him. Kettle followed at his own leisurely pace, and took up his accustomed place against the wall.

  Fengal didn’t bother with words until he’d poured me one. I didn’t bother with words until I’d downed it. The difference between Tambor’s Best and a bottle of Gol-Shen nearly gave me heart palpitations.

  “You steady now?” he asked me.

  “Getting there,” I grunted while pouring myself another.

  “I haven’t seen you this cabbaged in at least five years, woman.”

  “They burned down my house,” I said. “And then they burned down the carriage house in the back for good fucking measure.”

  “So, is this helping?”

  I snorted. “As if you’ve gone a day in your life without a bottle within reach.”

  He raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Oh, it’s to be an ugly drunk, then.”

  “I had a credenza!” My shout drew attention from nearby tables. I gave them the fingers.

  “Not sure what a credenza is, I’ll have to adm
it,” said Fengal

  “So don’t pretend you know my pain, you old fart.” I abandoned the glass and took up the bottle.

  “I would never.” He let me suckle in peace for a minute before his next sally.

  “So how was Bellarius?”

  “Worse than having your house burned down, thanks for reminding me.”

  “And how was... after Bellarius?”

  “It was like what I imagine being dead is like, except you can make your own wine, but you have to piss into the void.”

  “If that’s some sort of metaphor, it’s gone straight over my head I’m afraid.”

  “Every word factual.”

  “And Holgren? How’s the magus?”

  I tipped the bottle back, but nothing went into my mouth. “This bottle is shockingly empty.” I stared at it. “Betrayed yet again.”

  “You might want to slow down, Amra. You haven’t been here five minutes.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have given me something so drinkable.”

  “That’s a mistake I’ll rectify this time around, sure enough. Kettle, go fetch us a bottle of Mother Harm.”

  For the first time, I saw Kettle looking... troubled. “Boss, are you sure?”

  “Desperate times, son.”

  Kettle disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with a dusty, cobwebbed bottle. It was black. There was no label.

  “The fuck’s that?”

  “Something from the motherland.”

  “Elam’s not known for wine,” I said, the first tendrils of suspicion taking root in my brain.

  “No. No, it is not.” He uncorked it and poured into my glass. Whatever it was, it was the greenish tinge of corpse skin, and cloudy, and it smelled like something you’d drown your enemy in a vat of.

  “I’d get you a fresh glass, but honestly it wouldn’t matter.” I’ll give him this, he poured himself one as well, and without flinching. He raised his glass. “Welcome home, Amra Thetys.”

  I grunted and put the contents of the glass back in a single gulp.

  That proved to be a terrible mistake.

  WHEN NEXT I EXPERIENCED consciousness, the first thing I noticed was that weasels had been using my mouth as a burrow. Or a shitter. Or both.